


In My Heart Tonight

by Mazarin221b



Series: Across the Sky [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Reunions, Rimming, Sex basically, Top Gun AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock prepares for John's return to Fallon, after an absence of five months. He still has two days to get things ready, right?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sherlock chokes out a laugh and leaps for him, wraps his arms around John’s neck and his legs around John’s waist, his long, gangly height throwing them off balance and making John stagger backward until he gets his grip settled under Sherlock’s thighs and walks him back into the house, kicking the door shut behind them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Heart Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> MadLori requested a happy surprise military reunion for Doc and Mercury, with added PWP. Hey, I'm nothing if not obliging. And in keeping with the spirit of the original, completely unbetad and written in a single go, so if you see something stupid let me know, okay?

Sherlock shuffles about the living room, pushing papers together in rather more organized heaps than they had been, trying desperately to at least clean off the coffee table and the sofa. The dust swirls as he shakes off the afghan and thumps the cushions and stands back to look at his work.

It’s hideous. Stacks of drawings and printouts and calculations spill over every flat surface, and the pile of books near the television looks suspiciously unstable. There are at least six used teacups sitting around and he still hasn’t managed to get to the kitchen. His best suit is at the cleaners and his new shirt isn’t yet altered, there isn’t a speck of food in the house and he should change the sheets.

Sherlock drops down onto the sofa and runs his hands through his hair. Christ he even needs a haircut. He only has two more days to get it all pulled together before John’s flight back to Fallon lands.

Five months. It’s been five months since John kissed him goodbye on the tarmac at Fallon and got onto a plane bound for Norfolk, and from there to the USS Carl Vinson, currently off the coast of eastern Africa.  Five months of staticky satellite calls and email, five months without John’s touch, his kiss, his wry sense of humor and Sherlock was about to lose his mind with loneliness and pent-up desire.

All that ends in two days, he reminds himself fiercely. John said he’d come back and he is; his final tour is over, his position at Fallon as a Top Gun flight instructor is secure, and his things were delivered to Sherlock’s house from his storage unit in Norfolk last week. Sherlock had nosed in all of the boxes before he carefully unpacked all of John’s civilian clothes, washing and folding and joyfully finding spaces for them next to his own. He even found room for the hideous, worn purple tee shirt with a silver SR-71 Blackbird on it that had been washed so many times most of the silver had cracked and started to flake.

Sherlock smirks at the vision of John in that ridiculous shirt. He can’t wait for the chance to tease him over it.

He spends the rest of the day trying to get ahead of the game – he picks up his shoes, loads the dishwasher, and at least gets a start on vacuuming the floor. He’s fiddling with exactly how to get the wand attached to chase the cobwebs away when he hears a hammering on the door.

He drops the vacuum hose with a huff of annoyance. He has things to do, and he has no problem with issuing the person on the other side of the door a sharp brush-off. The heavy old door creaks as he jerks it open and just as he’s about to deliver a blistering rebuke his brain and his mouth freeze.

Sherlock can’t speak, can only raise a hand to his mouth in shock because his John, his beautiful, wonderful John, is standing on his front step with a lop-sided grin and disheveled blonde hair, a day’s worth of stubble and a bag hanging off of his shoulder. Sherlock thinks he looks amazing.

“I haven’t even washed the sheets,” he blurts out, then feels his face heat. “I mean, you’re early, you weren’t supposed to be here yet, and, and, there’s no food here and you must be exhausted—“

“Got a lift on a cargo flight,” John says, slowly stepping forward.  “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Fucking gorgeous.  Now why don’t you stop talking and give your Navy man a proper welcome home.”

Sherlock chokes out a laugh and leaps for him, wraps his arms around John’s neck and his legs around John’s waist, his long, gangly height throwing them off balance and making John stagger backward until he gets his grip settled under Sherlock’s thighs and walks him back into the house, kicking the door shut behind them.

“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock says, peppering kisses against John’s lips, his jaw.  John kisses back as much as he’s able while trying to maneuver them back toward the bedroom. He trips on the way and dumps Sherlock on his rear on the stairs, and they giggle and kiss and stumble their way toward the bed.

Once they’re finally there Sherlock slams the bedroom door closed and pulls all of the curtains against the purple-rose of sunset.  He strips off his shirt and jeans and pants, leaving him stark naked and eager in the glare of the bedside lamp.

“That’s…oh God,” John breathes, and guides Sherlock down on the bed. Sherlock scoots back until his back is against the headboard and watches, heart pounding and skin lit with arousal, as John pulls his clothes off, revealing his compact, taut body to Sherlock’s greedy gaze. John looks just as hungry, as needy, as he kneels on the bed and slides his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, rubbing his thumbs into the crease of Sherlock’s groin.  Sherlock groans, can’t help but buck up a little into John’s touch.

“More,” Sherlock urges, and his groans turn into a contented, quiet sigh as John dips down to kiss his stomach and nip the skin just above the line of his pubic hair. John hums desire against his skin and slowly drags his lips along the underside of Sherlock’s cock before flicking his tongue out to taste the soft frenulum.

Sherlock can’t help the tremble that shakes his body, the rush of pleasure that races up his spine, and when John pulls Sherlock’s cock more fully into the tight, wet heat of his mouth Sherlock cries out with the aching pleasure of it. John is beautifully attentive, pausing when Sherlock gasps, repeating when Sherlock curls his hand into John’s hair, twisting the strands almost painfully tight.  It’s everything he’d missed and more – the bone-deep comfort of the other part of his heart nestling back in the empty space he’d left, fitting there as perfectly as if he’d left yesterday.

Just as Sherlock feels the low pulse of his orgasm start to coil in his belly, John pulls off to nose up under Sherlock’s balls and spread his thighs wide.

“Please,” John says, and his voice is raspy, wrecked, eyes hooded and dark with lust. “Let me.”

Sherlock nods and John settles back on his stomach between Sherlock’s legs, nudging until he gets his shoulders under Sherlock’s hips, hands curled around and splayed over Sherlock’s stomach, his golden skin in stark contrast with Sherlock’s pale body. Sherlock shivers when John presses a kiss to the long tendon held taut in quivering anticipation, then moans when he slips lower, presses the flat of his tongue against Sherlock’s hole.

Christ, it feels gorgeous, long and slow and warm and wet, and then John hits the perfect spot that makes Sherlock jump and swear, so he chuckles and settles in, circles kisses and licks around Sherlock’s opening until Sherlock feels like he’ll go insane with it, his cock almost painfully hard and balls drawn up tight.

“Fuck,” he gasps and thumps his head back against the headboard in frustration. “Stop teasing me, please.”  John gives a mischievous glance from between Sherlock’s legs and begins to lick him in earnest, a rhythmic press and flick of his tongue that has Sherlock rocking against his face with mindless pleasure. When John wraps his fist around Sherlock’s cock and begins to pump him, he can’t hold back any longer and he comes, hot and wet against John’s hand and his own stomach, the rush and fire of it  leaving him seeing stars.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John whispers, kisses his thigh. “Good God I’ve missed seeing that.” He kneels up, lifts Sherlock’s legs over his arms and slides his cock against Sherlock’s arse, gently pushing at his hole as he slips into the crease.

Sherlock feels weightless, fuzzy at the edges, but arousal still sparks along his nerves and he wants more, needs more. He wraps a leg around John’s hip and pulls, rocks against him in invitation. “Inside,” he says, and John groans, presses a little harder on the next pass.

“You sure?” he asks, and Sherlock nods. He wants that, the intimacy of John hot and hard inside him, and he arches and pulls in deep, gasping breaths as John slowly breaches his body, pushes into him in slow, rocking thrusts that send aftershocks jolting up Sherlock’s spine.  John shudders when he’s fully seated and kicks his hips forward in a sharp shove that leaves them both breathless.

“Too good, won’t last,” John chokes out. He manages a few, full glides before his stamina finally breaks and he comes in long, drawn out shudders.

John collapses against Sherlock’s chest, his breath billowing against Sherlock’s sensitive skin. He’s hot and sweaty and covered in come, and it’s absolutely perfect.

“Welcome home,” Sherlock whispers into his hair, and they both giggle.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
